Le Temps Perdu
by Yvi
Summary: Satine’s early time at the Moulin Rouge, as told by Nini.
1. In which Nini is caught off guard

Disclaimer: No profit is being made in the unabashed exploitation of these characters. If any opportunities arise, please let me know.

Warning: Slash. F/F. As in, Satine being with someone other than Christian, although (take note, canon fiends) this does take place before the M'sieur le poet even enters the picture. Kindly leave if this idea makes you ill, as it will only intensify in later chapters.

Notes: *deep breath* This idea has been rattling about in the back of my brain for some time now and I had to get it out. It's also my first time experimenting with Nini in the first person, so forgive me if her voice is off. Any constructive criticism is greatly appreciated; I like hearing different opinions.

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­It was 1893. The Moulin Rouge hadn't been open long enough to tell for sure, but I could already guess which newcomers would have to spend years working their way up and which ones would make their names instantly. That was me, one of the second kind. Nineteen years old and still new, but I'd been lucky enough to land a main role in a top act the year before. Not bad for a slapdash acrobat who'd been living on smoke and stale bread for the past few years. I was in heaven.

But the better things get, the more likely they are get worse.

And yes, actually, that was cynicism there. Bohemians might not want to believe it, but some people still have it in them. I know, the damn ideals are all the rage now. Wander about with your head in the clouds and pretend not to notice how miserable you are. God forbid anyone focus on reality anymore when idealism is so much nicer. Swill your drinks and sing your songs and watch for miracles through your wineglasses. It's a hell of a way to make a living. Have you ever tried to pay a screeching landlady with dreams?

Me, I'll take the wine and parties, but my head wasn't made to travel in any clouds that don't come from filthy factories, sullenly smoking pipes, or other lovely tokens that come with living on the ground. And ideals: to hell with them all. There's a few of us who haven't been knocked senseless by them. Empty-headed optimism never does any good. 

Except I didn't know that back then. I was on top of the world for a little while, and I didn't understand it when my luck turned with the year. Toulouse, the one who'd put the act together, was away. His relatives, I heard, had some idiotic idea about sobering him up for good. ­"Convalescing," they called it. I'd performed with a dancer from the Argentine, but, since he was nowhere to be found, there was little hope for repeating the act. And as happy as Harold had been with me before, he had already moved onto other projects. Winter was setting in and things looked bleak.

Then the new girl came. 

She couldn't have been all that old, but she had a kind of. . .I don't know, a _way _about her I'd never come across before and haven't since. Some kind of aura, the bohemians would call it. Sort of serene and confident and modest all at the same time. And she was gorgeous; tall, with dark red hair worn loosely enough to let a few curls frame her incredibly pale face—only the combination made her look otherworldly instead of sickly—and eyes a purer blue than even Babydoll's, untouched by kohl. I got my first look at her when Harold was showing her around one evening, and she took my breath away. Literally. Creola was lacing me up at the time and I almost keeled over right there. 

She was in a plain dress, ragged but neat, and she carried herself like a princess. I could see right away why Harold wanted her. This one wouldn't have to do any dancing or teasing to make gentlemen start doling out the diamonds. She could do it just by being. Not that Harold would ever allow that, of course; he always was good for wringing the most profit out of everything. The girl was a gold mine waiting to be exploited. I almost felt sorry for her, knowing how easily she would fall to his skillful persuasions, but at the same time I felt gratified in knowing she would stay. Good company could be hard to come by, and I somehow knew right away I wouldn't mind being in hers. 

Harold was introducing me ("And this, my dear, is another one of our _outrageously_ talented dancers…"), but I was too busy gasping to look anything close to outrageously talented. As soon as I was able, I began a reply, but the girl dipped her head in my direction and smiled, which turned my mind to milk. "Pleasure to meet you," she said, and her voice was like a song.

"So you're a new one, then?" I asked, moving forward. Creola, who still had a hold of my laces, tugged them pointedly and practically made me fall over again. The girl looked at me curiously. "I don't usually get dressed in the hall," I blurted out. "It's just, the dressing room's not all that big. I mean, Christ, Harold, if I'd known you'd be bringing anyone by, I'd never've—" I was babbling. None of us ever cared who saw us dressing, but for some reason I felt I should explain myself. After a few more dim-witted seconds, I gave up. "Yeah, I'm Nini. Nice to meet you."

She nodded. "I know you. You did the fire tango last year."

Dear God, she knew who I was. "Yeah," I said dumbly.

Harold was glowing like one of his chandeliers. "This is Marcille. Isn't she adorable? Like a little bird, almost." 

She ducked her head. "Monsieur Zidler, please."

"Harold, my swallow, just Harold. We don't go in much for formality here"

She gave an embarrassed little laugh, but she didn't look away. He had her then and we all knew it.


	2. In which there is much jabbering

­Disclaimer: Nothing's mine, nor will it ever be.

Notes: More femmeslashy overtones; act accordingly. 

For Rosemarie, who nitpicked chapter one with incredible diligence. 

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When I went into the dressing room, everyone was talking about our fresh meat.

"Harold's fucking in love with her," snorted Majesty, stabbing a hairpin through Babydoll's curls. "Did you see how he was looking at her?"

"What d'you expect?" Babydoll countered. "She could bring in more than the rest of us combined, I'll bet. He gets her to stay and he's set for the next few years."

"Did you _see_ her?" Summer hissed as I shouldered my way to the mirrors. "My God."

Creola snickered, picking up a pot of rouge. "Oh, Nini saw her all right."

I shot her a dirty look. "Yeah, she'd be great for business." 

Arabia grimaced. "Don't get Liberty started. She's been doing calculations for the last ten minutes. Income and things, I guess."

"Too bad no one knows what they mean," muttered Summer. 

"Idiot, they sound impressive enough; that's all that matters," Hyacinth broke in before Arabia could reply. She glanced at Bernard, who was scowling by the doors. "We've got to get out there," she said. "We'll talk tomorrow. Meet at my room." 

I went straight to Hyacinth's once I was done for the night. Her room was closer than mine and I was dead tired. When I woke up later that afternoon, the others had already arrived. Liberty, Creola, Majesty, Babydoll, La Chinoise, Arabia, and the twins, Winter and Summer had crowded into the tiny apartment. Babydoll and Majesty were perched on the solitary chair; the others were seated on the floor.

"Finally up," Hyacinth said pointedly. She turned to the rest of the room. "We can sit on the bed now that Her Royal Highness is awake." 

"Hell with you," I muttered, leaning against the headboard as the others relocated. Secretly, I was grateful they'd left me be. Sleep could be a rarity, so we let each other indulge ourselves whenever possible. "There was a god-awful old bastard last night and he—" 

"Spare us, darling," Winter interrupted. "Here." She tossed me a chunk of bread. "Y'missed the first course."

"Damn." I caught it, sending a shower of crumbs onto the faded quilt. "And the entrée…?"

Liberty sagely lifted an eyebrow. "More bread." 

"Fresh, even," Arabia added, exchanging a glance with La Chinoise. "We had some luck with the baker."

I stared at her, but didn't comment. "Have I missed anything else?" 

"Not much. We've been wondering about Marcille. Liberty doesn't think she's a whore."

"That's because she isn't," Liberty answered instantly. "Not yet, anyway. You saw her the other day, all sweet and trusting. No common prostitute would have acted like that. She might have been kept once, but she's not some bacchanalian trollop."

"Jesus Christ," Majesty groaned. "No one's gonna know what you're talking about if we can't understand a damn thing you say. Quit the high talk b'fore you make yourself sick, not that it wouldn't serve you right."

Liberty tossed her head with mock haughtiness. "I'd rather be literate and ill than simply illiterate." 

"Shut up, both of you," Hyacinth interrupted. "She can't be all that well-bred or she'd be too high and mighty to even think about finding work at the Moulin Rouge."

"I don't know," Babydoll cautioned. "Polka Dot thinks she's from a good family come on hard times."

Hyacinth uttered a grating giggle that ended in a cough. "She'd know, wouldn't she?"

"She could've come from one of the opium dens," Summer suggested naively.

"Doubt it," I said with my mouth full. "She was too alert. Looked too healthy."

"Nini knows all about that sort of thing," Majesty declared, as if she had the room to talk. I started to say so, but Creola interrupted me. 

"Why don't you tell us what _you _think of her, Legs-in-the-Air?" she said slyly.

_I don't give a damn where she came from; what matters is that she's here now._

Not about to make public what was on my mind, I shrugged and plucked a lie out of the air. "I think she's some factory worker who got sacked and came by looking for more interesting work." Never mind that her hands had been smooth and white, her face unmarred by poverty or fatigue.

A few of the others began debating that, drowning out any other comments Creola might have made, which was fine by me. We soon moved on to discuss other things--just as well--but Marcille was still on my mind when we all went back to the dancehall at dusk. 

She was there again, sitting by to watch the performances. I picked her out immediately and grinned stupidly, not caring who saw. Easy to spot, she was in the same dress as before; her scarlet hair (it couldn't possibly be hennaed; no artificial means could produce that vibrant shade), which had been twisted back at the nape of her neck earlier, was in a loose plait that made me question her age. Before, I would have guessed she was hardly older than I was, if that. Now, she looked about sixteen. Full of contradictions, this one. 

I dressed as quickly as I could so I would have a chance to say hello before the acts began. I stole glances outside whenever possible, as if Marcille was in danger of disappearing. When Liberty chided me for it, I didn't even sneer at her. Instead, I steered her over to the door. "Look!" I sounded like a kid on Christmas. "She's here, see?" I checked myself then and switched to a more casual tone. "This place'll be ten times better once Harold gets her in an act, don't y'think?" Maybe even an act with me. __

Liberty just smirked and started her bookshop talk again, whipping out words longer than my arm. I did sneer then, and slipped outside before she could pull me back.

We weren't supposed to be seen before we started performing, but I'd never broken that rule before and I figured Harold would let it slide this once. At any rate, Marcille was sitting apart from the crowd, close enough to the dressing room doors that it hardly mattered. "Hey," I said, sauntering over and making certain she saw me in my full glory—the layered skirt I tossed just high enough to show off the fine stockings underneath, the way my thin hair stiffly curled around my face and made me look as close to pretty as I was likely to get. 

At the same time, I was nervous, not a state I'm used to falling into. It was painfully clear that, even with her drab dress, plain hairstyle, and bare face, she was more beautiful than most of us dancers. It seemed ridiculous to even think someone as glorious as she was might be impressed by us. I wondered if maybe I should have worn less makeup, let her see me as I was instead of the mask I was capable of creating.

But my doubts disappeared when her face lit up first in surprise, then delight. "Nini!" She half-rose, blushed, and sat back down, fine-boned fingers clasping together in an ivory knot. So she was nervous, too; I fought back the urge to pry her delicate hands apart and take one of them in mine. Her voice was hushed when she spoke again, hardly more than a breath. "You look…amazing." 

I leaned my gloved elbows on the table and grinned. "Thanks."

She was regarding me with awe, as if I was the one who looked like I belonged in a palace. "Is everything here like this? What I mean is, will I…?" At a loss for words, she dropped her head and laughed quietly. 

"Here, you can be whatever you want," I drawled expansively, sounding like one of Harold's sales pitches. 

Tentatively, she reached out and felt the fabric of my skirt; to my credit, I kept my poise. "Is it good here?" she asked in her soft voice. "Monsieur Zidler has been terribly kind and you seem entirely lovely, but the others…" Her ladylike words were tripping over each other, and she knew it. She frowned slightly. "When I was introduced to the rest of the dancers, that is, they looked as if they would rather die then work with me. I was wondering how much of it was an act."

That was it, then. We judged newcomers harshly, partly to guard our own positions, partly because it amused us to make them uncomfortable. I cursed the practice, never mind that I normally applied it with a vengeance. At least Marcille had been able to tell it wasn't completely genuine. She was smart, then, smarter than most. I made myself stop analyzing her and tried to answer. "The others? Hell with 'em; they're not near as rough as they'd have you think." No need to tell her just how vicious we could be, how, just two days ago, cherub-faced Babydoll had thrown her slight weight against one of the backstage doors in order to catch Tigress's arm in it. Something about Tigress not returning a necklace. "That is," I amended, struck by an urge to be as honest as possible, "they can be rough when y'start off, but once you prove yourself there's not much trouble And you'll be such a success so fast that they'll all adore you. God, we're already talking about how good you'll be."

"You think that's true?" She smiled, bright blue eyes shining in the dim light. 

"Stay and find out for yourself," I said, giving her a mysterious smile before Liberty caught my eye and urgently jerked her head. I gave Marcille a final glance over my shoulder before darting back into the dressing room.


	3. In which there are sharp tongues and sha...

She stayed, of course. Zidler--oh dear, she meant _Harold--_seemed perfectly sweet about it, and she was sure she would be able to learn the dances quickly. If the others ever unsettled her again, she never let it show.

It was a hell of a distraction. I appointed myself her teacher before anyone could beat me to it and I think I learned the dances even better myself on account. By the time we were though, I could make my way through all of them perfectly without once taking my eyes off her. Seeing her dance was like watching music. She wore one of Athena's old skirts to start and was striking even in that. Tall and thin without being bony--willowy, Marie called her--she probably could have worn a bedspread and still looked graceful. 

But she was never lofty about it. We'd had other girls come in, putting on airs and thinking they'd get by on their looks alone. Sonata and Siren had done away with the last one by putting something in her face powder that left her bright red for over a week. She hadn't stayed long after that. Marcille didn't put on airs. She was sweet in a quiet sort of way. Some thought her uppity at first and resented it, then figured it was just how she was and let her alone--Majesty was the last to break the habit of calling Marcille a high-minded brat; she stopped once I offered to save her on kohl for a while by blacking her eyes. Marcille never said so, of course, but I think she appreciated the intervention.

Afterward, she got along well enough with the others, but I liked to think she had a special affinity for me. It was easy enough to believe--even once she knew the dances and no longer needed me to teach her, she would seek me out. She was forever asking questions about the Moulin Rouge, which was one of the few subjects I was an authority on. I told her about the other performances and the bohemians and the fire tango that had made me well-known the year before, which she seemed to find fascinating. Carefully, I stretched out my stories as long as possible, and she told me her own stories in return.

She'd been kept before, as Liberty suspected, but other than that I never found out much as to her origins. Not that it mattered; present and future were what we lived for, the past was irrelevant. I asked once how old she was and she just lifted one shoulder and said she didn't know. That didn't sit well with me, but I had no other choice but to believe it. It seemed strange, though, even in a place like the Rouge--I knew_ my _date of birth, and my parents hadn't exactly been fussy about recording that sort of thing. Almost all of us knew about when we'd been born, whether we'd heard the information from distant relatives, orphanage owners, or someplace else altogether. Not knowing at all didn't seem right, especially for someone as refined as Marcille appeared to be. But in a way, it added to the mystery of her, making it seem even more like she hadn't been born into this world at all, but that she had somehow slipped into it by mistake. 

It was a ridiculous way of viewing her, but it might as well have been true. There was no possible way to figure out where she had really come from; we never managed to close in on any of the possibilities we'd pondered that time in Hyacinth's room. She took to life at the Moulin Rouge so easily I sometimes thought she must have worked in other halls, but she could be so innocent at times that the idea seemed impossible. It was hard to tell, sometimes, how much of that innocence was genuine and how much was pure manipulation. And she could be sly when she put her mind to it. We played tricks like schoolkids sometimes--stupid things like deliberately mistaking Winter for Summer, or replacing Scarlet's knives with breadsticks--and she managed to look so chaste every time I ended up catching all the blame. 

Then there were times when we would visit the artists, who loved sketching her, and gulp wine until we were laughing like idiots for no reason. I woke up once with a blinding headache and her arms pinning one of my legs to the floor. We both caught it for being late that night, because I hadn't wanted to wake her.

For the most part, we made it in on time. Occasionally she had a late start, but it hardly mattered, as she took half the preparation time the rest of us did. She didn't need much makeup, unlike most of us who had scars, blemishes, and other marks of our glamorous lives to cover up. And there was still that innocence about her at the strangest times, sometimes to the point that she seemed even pure. She seldom went about in her undergarments backstage like the rest of us; instead, she dressed separately or modestly wore a robe, which was almost funny considering what and where we were. Except with me. I was the one who would help with her laces, examine her back for bruises, dab cream or oil where the corset chafed. I had to fight Marie for the job sometimes; she'd been taken with Marcille from the start and was forever straightening her dresses or twisting her crimson hair into elegant styles. 

We got to talking about the future one night before work, and what kind of act she would have if she ever got her own. I'd stolen her away from Marie's withered claws and we were hiding behind the stairs, sharing a cigarette--I noticed she held it awkwardly, which made me wonder if she had smoked regularly before coming here. "I can't walk on my hands like you," she was admitting, "but I think I'm gifted enough in other areas."

"That so?" I said. "What've you got on me?"

"I'm good at knowing what people want and I can control them though it. All I need is a few seconds with someone to tell what they're like--after that, I can become any sort of person they want me to be." She giggled and dramatically lowered her voice to a mysterious purr. "I'm capable of things that would set your face aflame."

­"I haven't blushed since I was ten," I scoffed. "Try me."

"I've got to get dressed now, so there's not much time." She rose, and I was so intent on watching the way her gown swirled around her ankles that I was taken completely by surprise when she kissed my cheek in that way of hers that seemed so blameless. "I can elaborate later, if you're still curious." And she left before I could say anything. Under my makeup, I was blushing like the schoolchild I'd never been. 

When I wandered into the hallway a few moments later, I did my best not to seem as stunned as I was feeling. The others guessed something was amiss, though, after watching me struggle for about fifteen minutes to comb my hair with a fingernail file. "Holy God," Gypsy said, laughing and plucking it out of my hand, "what'd Marcille do to you over there?" 

"You're a mess," Creola agreed, tossing a brush at me, which I missed. 

I muttered something idiotic about hay fever that just made the two of them look at each other with raised eyebrows. I was about to begin casting about for a better excuse, but I was saved when Arabia came running in with La Chinoise, crowing that they'd gotten to eat for free at a good restaurant because of a favor they'd done for one of the waiters. I swung around and fixed her with gaze forceful enough to shift everyone's attention away from the matter at hand.

"It's about time someone filled you both in on a few things," I snapped, staring at them until La Chinoise blinked. They were the two newest dancers, both younger than I was. Harold had brought them in together one afternoon and they had taken to the new life well. Arabia was a talker, but La Chinoise was a strange one. More exotic than even Creola, she was sultry and silent, with golden skin and a white streak in her hair that was too perfect to be the work of bleach. No one knew for sure if she even spoke French. Only Arabia seemed to know anything about her at all; I'd seen them sitting close together more than once, slim brown hands tangled together. ­

Arabia cocked an eyebrow. "And what might those be?"

"We're courtesans, dear," I said bluntly, "not two-penny whores. Maybe you haven't been here long enough to know this, but that means we don't fuck for food." For one satisfying second the looks on their faces were priceless.

"Oh, piss off," snapped La Chinoise, recovering. "How were we to know?" I was so taken aback at hearing her speak that I almost didn't reply.

"'Cos we're better than that. Here, you don't just give yourself over like a piece of meat; you make the men pay for it." I smirked. "Keep that in mind, won't you, else you'll end up getting a bad name."

La Chinoise was still grumbling--for a foreigner, she cursed excellently--and Arabia was glaring at me, but I was too distracted to care. As soon as Gypsy and Creola turned away, I went to find Marcille and find out just what she had meant by "elaborate."

When I caught her near the curtain, I kept my voice mocking but good-natured. "So. You know what kind of person I am, is that what you meant to say before? And now you think you have control over me 'cos you can act a certain way when you're with me?"

She seemed at a loss for both words and actions, a dozen different expressions flickering across her face as she searched for the right one. I barely heard her whisper, as the curtain rose and the crowd's bellowing filled my ears, "That wasn't acting."

I danced better than ever that night.


	4. In which some things prove ephemeral and...

­­Notes: If this chapter looks familiar, there's a reason for it. It originally appeared in a slightly different version as a stand-alone fic; months later, I decided to expand upon it by writing Le Temps Perdu. I know a few people have seen it around in its original form. I've changed it in some ways now to fit the larger context of the fic as it currently stands.

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Marcille had it easier than most new girls. No need to worry about inadequacy; she'd stunned everyone into submission as soon as she sweetly stepped through the door, and she picked up on our ways quicker than anyone expected. I doubted she realized it herself, but there was something about her that evoked awe. The girl was making a name for herself before she'd even taken a name. And so when she started asking around about living arrangements, nobody snubbed her. Marcille had been staying in the dressing rooms since she had arrived, not counting the odd hours she spent in various artists' flats.   
  
"Polka Dot says she's got a room not too far off," she coyly told me one day. "I'm thinking I might stay with her for a little, just until I can afford my own. I'd rather not stay backstage any more than I have to."  
  
I theatrically narrowed my eyes for a moment and stayed silent until her delicate face shifted in a parody of concern. "Is that not a good idea?"  
  
"It's fine, if that's what you want." I had been twisting a fiery strand of her hair around one of my fingers, and tugged it lightly.  
  
She laughed a little bell-like laugh. "I don't know of anyplace better." One of her eyebrows arched expectantly.  
  
I pretended to think for a moment. "I do have a place of my own, y'know. It's closer than Polka Dot's and just as decent."   
  


Marcille smiled.

  
So that was how we came to share the room. When work was through, we'd sleep during the day, peeling off layers of ruffles and frills, unlacing each other and gratefully slumping into chairs, wiping makeup off on rags and going to bed, exhausted and curled around each other for warmth. Even then, wan-faced and exhausted, she was incandescent--hardly fair, since I always looked ghoulish by that time. But I couldn't force myself to mind it all that much, seeing as I could easily have sat for hours watching the play of the firelight on her vivid hair. It was like living fire itself, or lava, a tongue of pure flame. 

Hell, I still can't describe it, so there's no point in tripping over my tongue. I was never good with words, but she was enough to make me wish I was. It was better that way, anyway. If any other the other girls ever found out Nini Legs-in-the-Air was getting fucking poetic over a lump of hair, I'd never hear the end of it. I had my reputation to think of.  
  
At the Rouge, Marcille got better by the day. She was skilled, picking clients up in the palm of her hand and artfully toying with them to suit her fancy. She kept her real name for a while, declining any suggestions. When I confessed to her that Nini wasn't my own name, she began to reconsider. As a joke, I suggested Satan, since one of the artists had said the other day that she was devilishly charming. For her part, she thought Satin was more fitting; I snorted and told her it was prissy. Eventually, she settled on Satine, which wasn't even a word. "The devil in satin," she purred experimentally, and as stupid as the phrase was, the way she said it made me shiver in her arms. 

I found out later that Majesty had been taking bets on how many weeks we would stay on. She must have lost a lot on that one; serves her right. 

We went on for far longer than a couple weeks. It lasted two years, even though we still had our separate customers to see to. Hard for anyone to believe, especially me, but for two goddamn years things kept on.

Things changed over that time, like always, while we remained constant. Scarlet died a grossly appropriate death via scarlet fever. Hyacinth came to spend more time coughing than performing until the one overcame the other and she collapsed on the floor--no one noticed it till the end of the night, when they found her cold as clay and covered with footprints. Siren cracked her skull open when the ropes gave during her act--there was talk for a while that it was no accident--and Creola was knifed by a client. Other dancers left or faded, and new girls came to take their places: cold Tarot, shuffling cards almost too large for her doll-sized hands; intense Juno, whirling through seemingly every dance known to mankind; serene Tartan, wearing her sister's ashes in a pouch at her waist…  

But more earthshaking than anything else was what happened to Genevieve. She was Harold's pride and joy, the leading lady; the only one privileged enough to call the elephant home. And she was found poisoned one evening shortly before her act began. According to Babydoll, who had been with the Rouge from the start, she had been a star from day one. Delicate-featured as a child, with hair that curled down to her hips in a honey-colored curtain, Genevieve had the unearthly beauty of an angel or a mermaid. She had never chosen a _nom de guerre_ for herself, and instead of bogging down her path to success, the quirk had hastened it, setting her even farther apart from the rest of us. 

Satine had viewed her with an odd combination of awe and condescension, as if she admired Genevieve but knew something she didn't. "I could do that," she had murmured once, watching from behind the mirrors as Genevieve sang the house into a dead silence from the middle of the floor. "Before long you'll be twice that famous," I had assured her, the words leaping out of my mouth before I thought them. 

When Genevieve was found dead in her dressing room, they called it a suicide, and Satine didn't understand. 

"She had everything," she burst out, wringing one hand like an indignant child and clasping mine so tightly with the other that it numbed my arm. "She was beautiful, famous, rich. Why should she want to die?"

I never did come up with an answer to that; there wasn't time. Genevieve was lying blue-faced in a silken puddle on the floor, and outside the audience was waiting for her to sing them spellbound. After I'd pried my hand from Satine's, kissed her cheek, and sardonically told her to wish me luck (she didn't; instead she said, "Please, Nini, don't do anything"), I left the distraught gathering at the dressing room and went out instead. There was some laughing and muttering from the patrons when they saw me, and Théophile wouldn't play the piano until I'd stood there for several seconds making desperate faces, but things smoothed out once I got started. My voice wasn't as strong as Genevieve's had been, but I could hit the right notes. And, I discovered, I could do acrobatics at the same time. It went over a hell of a lot better than I'd expected. 

So much better that, once Harold bawled me out afterward for taking things into my own hands, my new act became a regular one. I was on top again, sometimes performing alone, sometimes with the Argentinean who'd helped boost my name in the first place, but always going home to Satine. "You'll be such a star you'll forget all about me," she said once, and even though she meant it as a joke I spent ten minutes proclaiming that would never be the case. By the time I'd finished, she had fallen asleep.


End file.
